There seems
A rich underplayed layer of life,
Missed by the masses;
Then perhaps captured too late.
For a life spent unseeing- to see before the lights go out seems cruelty.
As if a shadow to remind what might have been.
Then though, it cannot be with regret:
Recognized.
For within it wraps the smile of knowing that without what came before- the doorway not discovered.
It was down the hall ways of experience where the key uncovered and the arching door revealed.
So lay beyond the door,
An ocean.
Wild.
Raging.
With waves higher than their peaks, forceful navy scratched into the white.
Veins of ebony mixed with ivory.
Lit up-
By the moon.
Still hushed by the cradle of the doorway, toes touching the sand.
Should we but touch one finger to the sea-
To travel upon its’ whims.
With chance to set upon another shore?
Better swallowed whole,
Pressed down beneath the recesses and air captured within a shell.
Then,
Should the waters split as the Red Sea-
Casting sun rays upon a sleeping shell.
Do we walk again, to the other side?
Raised, as the sleeping to wander.
Wanderlust... captured like kelp floating upon the calm, the storms long past.
To touch a way in which to live again.
A bridge upon the horizon may lead the way,
Yet legs sore from sleeping, weak from resting.
To discover hope once again;
Though seeing it has changed shape and form since pounded by the water.
Now smooth, rolled by the oceans-
Not a stone to hold- but rather roll off our fingers and create ripples upon a pond.
Whisper to the wind,
The way the ripples touch the shore.
Wake not the sleeping, for their hallways lay upon the shores of other lands.
But they, in the water;
Might find the strength to breathe again.
Those who stare upon the stains might find their keys.
Their own doorways, still to discover.
That is to live....
Wholly.
There seems a rhythm like that.
